


Swordsworn

by Thursday_Next



Category: King & Lionheart - Of Monsters and Men (Song)
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/pseuds/Thursday_Next
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rough sea-crossing, old nicknames, old wounds and new fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swordsworn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



> Treat (just a snippet, really) written for Nary as part of jukebox 2013.
> 
> This is purely based on the song and has nothing to do with the video. 
> 
> I see this as taking place in a historical fantasy setting (think Game of Thrones). I have chosen not to name the characters.

The sky is a rough grey and the seas below a swirling, inky black. My hands grip the railings, knuckles turning white. I have not succumbed to the sea-sickness like so many of the men, but I do not like it either. I long for the reassurance of solid ground beneath my boots instead of these creaking boards.

A hand falls on my shoulder, warm and strong and for a second or two I have that feeling of being grounded I have been craving. Then the pressure is gone, the owner of the hand coming to lean on the railings beside me, fair hair tousled by the strong sea breeze.

“Bracing, isn’t it?” His lips quirk into a smile. He always forgets that I know better than anyone the truth behind the mask he chooses to show to the world, the man behind the crown. I know that he is just as uncomfortable with this journey as I. I know that he does not sleep at night, thinking of what will find us on the other side of the seas, in the cities on the foreign shore.

“It’s cold,” I complain. “And I do not like the smell.”

“Ah, you’re a true valley-dweller, all right,” he says, amused. 

It’s not the insult it once was, when we first knew each other. But that was long ago, before we held so many of each other’s secrets.

“Should you be up here alone?” I ask. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” He tosses his head. “The guard are all green around the gills, the whole sorry lot of them. Besides, I’m hardly likely to be assassinated here in the middle of the ocean, now, am I?”

There’s always the crew, I think, scanning the deck to see if I can spot one of them acting suspiciously. I don’t voice my fears out loud, though.

“You forget that you’re king now. You should have a guard with you at all times.”

“I never forget it,” he says, suddenly serious, the words heavy with the weight of all the things he has had to give up with his ascension to the throne. “And anyway,” he continues, “you’re here.” His tone is light but there’s a look in his eyes that lets me know that he means it. That he trusts me with his life, me perhaps better than anyone else. His faith in me still takes my breath away, and for a reckless second when his hand inches closer to mine on the railing I let it, taking comfort in the touch.

But not for too long. We’re a long way from home but that doesn’t mean anything has changed. It’s a risk neither of us can afford to take, especially now. I pull my hand away and fidget instead with the end of my braid.

“We arrive in three days, wind willing,” he says in a low voice. “You would not deny me now?”

“I will die in your service, my king,” I say, the words echoing the bittersweet oath I swore a year ago, the oath that bound me to his side while ensuring we could never be anything nearer than king and swordsworn. 

“I can’t think of anything I would wish for less,” he says, and I can hear the anger and frustration in his voice. I can’t meet his eyes, knowing that to do so would be my undoing. 

“You think we truly will arrive before the week is out?” I ask, as if we were speaking of nothing but the journey and the weather conditions.

“Aye. It will be well for the men to have an extra day or two in port to recover their land legs.” He huffs out a breath, visible in the early morning chill. “Do you think they are afraid?”

Of course they are afraid. They do not wish to die so far from their homes, at the mercy of these spectral creatures which they may not even be able to fight. And yet afraid or not they will follow him as they have sworn to do. But he knows this as well as I -- better, probably, since he was one of their rank, once, and I have never been truly accepted as one of them.

“It is not for us to be afraid,” I say, lifting my chin, “rather these goat-loving barbarians and their poxy ghosts should worry about us.”

He laughs.

“I think you mean that. Of course you are not afraid of anything.” His smile softens with a dangerous affection. “Are you, my lionheart?”

The old nickname is like a kick to the chest. I open my mouth to say that I am not his anything, not anymore, but that would be a lie.

He thinks me brave, thinks me heartless, perhaps, but I am neither. I am afraid of many things – afraid of failing him, afraid of losing him, afraid of him tearing down these boundaries between us that I have worked so hard to keep up. 

I stare down at the embroidered sigil of the lion rampant on my tunic and cannot answer him.


End file.
